Captain Heldstrom, sailing-master of the _Shark_, had previously served for ten years in the U.S. Navy and might have had a commission had he wished. Most of his service had been under the choleric Captain Bell, to whom, for some incomprehensible reason, he was devoted. It was, therefore, not unnatural that he should have followed him on his retirement, nor that he should have assumed the care of the little girls, the old Norseman having, like so many big-muscled, big-hearted men, a tremendous fund of paternal instinct. They had their governess, of course, but it was "Uncle Chris" who really brought them up and tended them when ill and imparted to them much of his own honest, fearless nature. He taught them discipline as well, and all three had more than once felt the flat of his big hand where it would do the greatest good; Cécile for impudence, Paula for theft (stealing goodies from the galley), and Hermione for adventuring aloft and swarming out on the jib-boom. This last admonition had been followed by a cuff on the side of the watchman's head which had sent that grinning tar into the scuppers. Thus one may listen with less surprise to a certain conversation taking place upon the ample quarter-deck of the schooner, she squatting peacefully upon the sparkling waters of Shoal Harbour, one golden day early in August. Sprawled amongst the cushions on a transome, basking like a pussy-cat in the sun, was Cécile, a luscious beauty, ripe to the point of falling from the bough, and already petulant for the plucking. For three seasons this girl had demoralised the yachting world, for Captain Bell was widely known, and the _Shark_ as hospitable as her namesake. A high-tempered but jovial host, epicurean of appetite and ready to immolate his health on the altar of good-fellowship at a moment's notice; three lovely daughters, one a desperate flirt, one soft and sweet as a West Indian night breeze, the third a long-legged nymph with violet eyes, her pretty mouth full of sailor slang, ready to swim a race around the ship or run one over the truck.... My word, it is no wonder that old Heldstrom's hair had visibly whitened in the last three years. Cécile was catching it fore-and-aft upon this August day. "It vas me br'rought you oop," growled the Norwegian in his beard, "und somedimes I am not pr'roud of it. How many yoong men haf you jilted this summer?" Cécile dropped her chin on her knuckles and kicked up her heels most unmaidenly. "I haven't jilted anybody. It's not my fault if they slam off in a rage. I don't ask any odds, and if they can't play the game without bawling, they shouldn't play it at all." "Love is not a game; it is a serious business, as some day you may find oudt to your cost." Cécile gave the nearest cushion a vicious kick, and her head a toss which set the bright hair to shimmering opalescent as a new-hooked porgy.